


An Ever-Fixed Mark

by Fyliwion



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Extramarital Affairs, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Fluffy Angst, Friends to Lovers, Holmes is Angsty, Hurt/Comfort One Sided, Multi, Naked Cuddling, Oral Sex, POV Sherlock Holmes, Possible Suicidal Thoughts, References to Shakespeare, Sexual Content, almost pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 23:41:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2670740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyliwion/pseuds/Fyliwion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Love is not love/ Which alters when it alteration finds,/ Or bends with the remover to remove:/ O no; it is an ever-fixed mark, /That looks on tempests, and is never shaken...." </i><br/>Holmes is a selfish man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Ever-Fixed Mark

**Author's Note:**

> I detest Holmes first-person, and I’m very sorry for subjecting people to it. I would also like to apologize for the absolute wordiness of it.
> 
> That said: This wasn't Watson's story to tell.

_Let me not to the marriage of true minds_  
_Admit impediments. Love is not love_  
_Which alters when it alteration finds,_  
_Or bends with the remover to remove:_  
_O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,_  
_That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;_  
_It is the star to every wandering bark,_  
_Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken._  
_Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks_  
_Within his bending sickle's compass come;_  
_Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,_  
_But bears it out even to the edge of doom._  
_If this be error and upon me proved,_  
_I never writ, nor no man ever loved._

                                        -Sonnet 116; William Shakespeare

  


I knew he’d seen the slight tremor in my hand.

It was the first hint I gave that something had truly gone wrong on our current adventure. I suppose Watson must have had an inkling it was to come on that first day I collapsed in his sitting room, fear coursing through me as I hung the drapes and regaled him of the situation with Moriarty.

Yet our escape had filled us both with adrenaline, and the further exploits excited rather than left me worried. I admit, reluctantly, at the time I was enjoying the somewhat impromptu holiday that had been thrust upon us. Watson’s company was more than pleasant, and we had talked of all the things that so frequently we had never found the time for in London. I was able, for a time, to nearly push from my mind the entire reason of our venture.

Yet once the evening came and we’d retired to our rooms, my thoughts once more turned towards the consulting criminal. A worry that everything had not gone according to my carefully laid plans, and that still I might awaken to the sound of an air rifle come morning.

I had carefully honed my skills as an actor, and made certain come morning Watson should not think on such matters. It was easy to lose myself in the camaraderie and take advantage of the ease as one does when you have the benefit of holidaying with someone for whom you care deeply.

Then came the third of May.

I suspect that I’d given something away at dinner. Perhaps a shadow in my eyes, a wariness in my step, or the somberness I could not manage to unfold no matter my attempts. When we returned to our rooms I found myself pacing in thought, and frequently looked out over panorama the Alps laid out before us.

But then I could never fully hide things from my Watson.

“Holmes?”

Our companionship caused me to be careless in allowing my worries and concern for my friend to slip through. There was little question where my weakest link in my chain lay. He may have been my strongest asset, but there was no question that if he were to die or face serious injury to his person on our cases the culprit would never again see the light of day.

That said, such emotions held other temptations that had no place in appearing in the image of a married man.

“It-” for a moment he caught me and I considered telling all. Surely Watson would understand and having been in the military I daresay he might have insight to tactical advantages.

Or it would simply put us both in more danger than we already had stumbled into.

 “It is nothing. Errant thought is all.”

Watson would have believed me, had my hand ceased the impertinent trembling.  I knew that he saw it as I crossed the room and poured a whiskey and water.

In the end I sat to undress upon my bed as he turned to meet my eyes. A month prior and I should think he would have let it alone, but we’d been at closer quarters the past weeks than we had living together.

Sometimes it made matters simpler, but now I saw the flaw in such a carefully constructed plan. Weeks of this and my own mortality had caught up with me. The knowledge of the missive I had received that night sent a pain struck a chord.

“The truth Holmes?”

I shifted uncomfortably as I worked at my buttons, “I worry. I saw a man at dinner and-“ I managed a partial smile towards my Watson, but the look in his eyes told me he saw the truth beneath the poorly constructed lie. “It’s nothing Watson. My own imagination that has been too long without a proper case.”

Another lie; which this time caused him to laugh. It was exemplified by whatever must have shown on my face, “A proper case Holmes? What is this then?”

“Espionage.”

This time I joined in his laughter, but even that did not erase the lines of worry from Watson’s face.

He rose from his bed and came to sit next to me. I grew still at the sudden proximity, and tentatively he reached out to place a hand against my arm.  I admit that I flinched against the contact, but did not pull away. “Holmes. I should know if our situation has changed.”

He was a soldier who had seen one of the worst battles of our time, and would understand better than any why such maneuvers were sometimes needed. He would understand the fear of going into a battle you are certain not to return from. He would know why my choice was necessary.

Were I stronger man perhaps I might have, but my own fears and feelings clouded what logic remained in such an argument. Too, I worried the hints I had seen in him. There was the strong possibility he would not let me.

God knows should our places have been switched I would not have allowed it.

“Just a worry Watson. A feeling without any real evidence to make it into a logical rationale. Leave my thoughts to me, for I hardly think both of us should have the headache that comes from them.” I settled my temple against his shoulder, unable to give up the closeness when the realization was I might never again have such possibilities.

I was shocked to feel his hand slip into my hair and combing through the strands. I felt my eyes shut, and the trembling calmed slightly. I felt a hint of shame at how easily I had allowed myself the distraction and fear.

I have wondered if Watson could see my feelings for him wrought blatantly on my face like any two-bit rent boy.

Instead his fingers continued their administrations and I wished nothing more than to continue on precisely that path. As wrong as it was, more so given my Watson’s wife, who knew what tomorrow should bring? What repercussions? Indeed, if he left in a fit of anger it would only keep him that much safer from the outcome of whatever final melee awaited me come morning.

Such it was I came upon the truth of the matter. I had, in fact, nothing to lose should I allow myself this one final selfish act.

So it was, I opened my eyes, and caught the hand that had been brushing through my hair. I turned, making sure to meet his eyes, and found myself surprised at the alertness there. His mustache twitched, and there was a question on his brow as I brought his hand forward.

First I inspected the fingers. I memorized each whorl and crease, the faint scar from a scalpel in school along between his thumb and index, and watched the patterns of his finger prints.

Then, I turned the hand running my thumb along his knuckles and the callouses of his palm. I smiled at the imprint of the gun, and thought in amusement at the paradox it had with his writer’s nubs and rubbing from his medical tools.

What a man was this.

My final act was to lift the palm to my lips and press a chaste kiss to the center palm.

Unduly romantic but something even Watson could not fail to recognize for what it was.

His voice cracked, but my heart raced as he did not pull away, “Holmes-“

I did not listen. I kissed the callouses, the one on his palm and then his fingers, and their tips. I moved to linger on the scar, and then the mark from a burn during his time in Afghanistan. I turned his hand to brush the top of his knuckles, and lifted my eyes to take in every glance and expression that he shared between us.

 I saw the look of confusion, worry, fear, and then the underlying guilt.

But not disgust. Thank all, that of the many things reflect on his face disgust was not one of them.

Then there was a flame that took alight in his eyes and I could barely register what it was as he grabbed my wrist and I pulled me forward to press his lips against mine.

I felt a hint of shame at the cry that emitted from me, extrapolated from joy or sorrow I could not tell. His mustache pricked at my cheek, but his lips were soft and pliant as they moved against my own. When we broke apart we were both out of breath.  He leaned his forehead against mine.

“Bloody hell…”

“Indeed.”

It was so wrong of me. The act itself would condemn us both to whatever Nethersphere awaited in the beyond, and all the more that he was a married man, to a woman I respected and liked. Yet I suspected if there was a place then I should be headed their regardless, as I intended to make certain Moriarty should be at any such gate with me.

How fitting it should all end as it began.

Watson’s hand rose up to brush my cheek, and I saw a look of worry in his eyes. At first I thought it meant he would be leaving my bed, regretting his own impertinent action, but instead he continued the soft caress.

 “I should ask what brought this on Holmes,” he said softly. “But as in all things, I shall follow you into whatever mad abyss you have led us.” His lips brushed my clavicle, and I gasped at the soft coils his thumb made along my inseam.  “As my own thoughts have tarried here since this confounded journey began, I can hardly turn you away when I finally have you.”

I allowed him to guide me back upon the bed, his body shifting over mine, and his lips once more capturing my own with little of the chastity they had held earlier.

“Watson-“ I managed breathlessly as I tried to speak.

He gave a chuckle a he worked at continuing to undress me, “So formal even now?” I gasped as I felt his hand slip into my trousers, bucking into his open palm I had categorized minutes before, and tossed my head back at his laughter. “Why _Holmes_ , I should think I know you better now.”

The request caught me off guard, and I should have liked to reach up and savor the moment. I managed to calm myself to look into his face, register how bright his blue eyes shone, and the rude awaking of how many chapters of his story I would never know.

“ _John.”_

He grinned wickedly, and I flushed when I found myself rewarded with another kiss, “Better.”

Every inch of me was explored, and his fingers dove and memorized every crevice. I sought to do the same. I wished to map every inch of his skin in what may be the last hours allotted me. Should I never have the opportunity again, I would be certain that the night was not wasted and I could meet my peril having that knowledge safe within my mind.

I wondered, lying in the darken room with him crying out beneath me, if he knew our last time should be our first.

When we were both spent, wrapped in our arms with his hand running unnamed designs along my chest I lost myself.

“An ever-fixed mark, that looks on tempests and is never shaken. It is the star to every wandering bark, whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.”

His fingers stopped, and I felt his breath catch. The reference was known then.  It was wrong to have spoken it aloud at all, but with the moon over her cusp and dancing over his face I found my mind running away with me.

“Shakespeare? I should not have thought you such a romantic,” his voice cracked and it was his hand I felt tremble upon my person this time.

“It ran away from me. I had not meant to speak it aloud,” I attested. I allowed my body the luxury of curling against his, not denying the meaning behind them. I thought for a moment here I have over reached, but instead his arm tightened and he draped around me until we became one entity.

I knew we should speak of it, even as I buried my head against his chest to reassure myself with the constant beating of his heart.  I remained awake to watch him sleep and listen to the sound of his blood rushing through his system, and flutter of eyelashes against his cheek as he fought from drifting off himself.

The fear was gone now, and there was a sense of finality that in the morning I should likely find my death awaiting me somewhere in the foothills about Meiringen . It made it worse, the knowing that I should finally have him, and that my own thoughtless emotions were returned.

It was cemented in the irrevocable knowledge of the possible outcomes of my meeting with the angel of death _._ It was the understanding of a prisoner supping upon his last meal.

When Watson awoke close to dawn I caught his mouth once more. It was my hand that ran upon him, and my lips that traced his body in veneration. I slipped between him, taking his once more growing arousal between my lips and sought to taste him. Here I let him thrust, still half asleep, until he was fucking me in earnest. I was rewarded as he spent, and swallowed bitter liquid so this part of my Watson I too might take with me to the grave.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” my first name caused me to throw my head up and look at him. The way he said it, egad, it nearly undid me.

As I met his eyes I saw he was alert and the worry had returned to his brow. “Please. Tell me I am not about to lose you.”

Oh Watson, so keen and perceptive when I wished for it the least. He captured my cheek, and I saw the knowledge in his eyes. He may not have seen the same warning I had, but he knew when a man went to war.

The words pressed against my lips, fighting that I might crawl back into his arms and beg him to stand with me whatever the damned consequence.

_The sound of an air rifle against the falls._

_A muffled cry, turning to see a flash of crimson as Watson-_

“Promise me Sherlock.”

This time there was vehemence in it, a knowledge that sent a quiver through my spine. I knew that moment the contingency plan I would need to set into motion.  

“My dear John, I am yours to do as you will. Should I leave your side at all today, it will only be to your bidding.” I shifted in our bed and moved to kiss him. “Will that do?”

There was still a doubt in his eyes, but this time it was eased as he rested his head atop mine.

“It will do.”

Two hours hence, I penned a note as he busied himself with Old Steiler downstairs.

… _An urgent matter has arisen as an Englishwoman arrived shortly after your departure in the late stages of consumption..._

This time my hand did not shake.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have a great fondness for the idea that _something_ occurred that final night in Meiringen, before Holmes and Watson departed to Reichenbach. I also had the thought of what if, after all the weeks, Holmes’ fears finally caught up with him. As we know at the start, he is not unshakable.
> 
> Which led to all my favourite head canons into a fic. (Holmes penned the note dragging Watson away. Holmes knew Moriarty was waiting for him before they ever left for Reichenbach that day. Holmes thought he was going to his death).
> 
> Comments appreciated!


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